Loneliness

Now it is Loneliness who comes at

Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.

Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,

I watch her softly blowing out the light.

Motionless sitting, neither left or

She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.

She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.

So, with the laurel she is garlanded.

Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing

Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.

A strange wind flows… then silence.  I am

To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,

Cling to her, waiting, till the barren

Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain